The Chair

There is a chair inside my head.
It does not swivel nor recline,
just rocks back and forth
awaiting its own decline.

It is made of pliable wood,
colored in pink white and blue,
too soft to be of any value
to me or you.

It is true. It is true.
There's a chair in my head
and you can sit there too
because after all
it is pink white and blue.

I don't know if it is made of oak,
cherry, maple or pine.
It is very old and, truth be told,
like my heart, made of strands
of the weakest twine.

It is true. It is true. 
There's a chair in my head 
and you can sit there too 
because after all 
it is pink white and blue.